As soon as I wake up I know why I get so angry when people are in but don’t answer their doors. I want to beat their doors down. I want to grab their throats and say ‘at least have the guts to face me’. I want to crawl away ashamed. It’s because of Dad: all those years he didn’t talk to me; didn’t talk to any of us. I’m eating breakfast alone in the community kitchen. I'm appalled. This Appeal is making my whole life parade before me.
In meditation Sahaja’s sculpture of the Buddha in the Birmingham Centre’s garden comes to me. The figure is skeletal; the spine a thick metal pipe bang in the middle of the torso. My breath is that backbone. It’s my only hope. There’s no way my brain can sort everything out. The backbone supports the soft belly-full of feelings. Breath;backbone;staff. Feelings;belly;begging-bowl.
I tell the team about marching to Vinny’s house last night determined to get our leaflet back. The night before that I’d seen the blue pulse of TV light through his blinds but he hadn’t answered. Last night, on the second rap the door opened a fraction and a woman’s face peered over the chain. ‘I left a leaflet with Vinny’, I announced. She ducked down then poked it through the gap in the doorway. Standing with it in the street I felt mortified. The leaflet was of no use to me and now I could never go back to that house. And then the truth of the situation dawned. It hadn’t been Vinny with his bald head and heavy earings and big dog not answering the door the night before last.. It had been this woman – scared to open the door on her own after dark. I was filled with shame.
When I finish telling this I look around at the team. In their eyes I see sadness; and I see kindness. I tell them about Dad. I’m shouting. I’m crying. I’m washed clean.
Manjuka is watching me knock doors. I’m in the posh street again but tonight I meet friendly people and have lively chats. I’m showing off. But the last woman puts me in my place. Or I put myself in my place, which is lower than her place and I retreat, abashed.
Manjuka has noticed that I make continual responsive-listening sounds. At first I think he’s praising me. But he goes on to suggest that this habit makes it harder to assert myself – giving the example of this last woman. I see what he means but wail that it’s a lifetime’s habit. I’m awash with so much feedback. I need a pithy teaching. ‘OK’, he says, ‘you’re great in relation to the Sangha Jewel. You connect with people well. You’re good on the Dharma Jewel, leaving space for things to happen; the Blue Sky. Now concentrate on the Buddha Jewel. Stand like you’re standing on the Vajrasana’. As he speaks, my body straightens of its own accord and my feet plant themselves into the ground.
